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“Um”—his smiling lips brush over mine—“no.”

A prickle of annoyance slides over my nape and I glare at him.

Then get to watch as his face goes soft and he kisses the hinge of my jaw, says gently and really quietly (something I like it far too much), “It’s just a little farther, baby. Hang in there with me?”

I want to say no, to demand he tell me what the hell we’re doing out here right now. But his body is close and he smells good and hand is warm around mine and his words are gentle and…

It’s a beautiful night.

I haven’t had too many of those in my life, and I want this one.

So I nod and let him draw me forward again, committing those gentle words, the warm hand around mine to memory.

And soaking in all that’s around me.

The stars are out, glinting like jewels in the darkened sky. The moon is round and bright, turning the world into shades of navy and silver. The humidity has died down too, and since the temperature’s remained pleasant, there’s no need for a jacket.

Not that I’d need one.

Dancing next to those Ambroses have warmed me up plenty.

No. Dancing with Ace, his big, strong body brushing against mine, his hands on my hips, his lips at my ear, his words like phantom fingers running along the insides of my thighs…that warmed me up.

Noble is fun. And sweet in his own Ambrose way.

But I don’t burn for him, don’t want to draw him into the shadows on either side of us, get down on my knees and give him an orgasm I didn’t get to finish giving the day before.

Only Ace makes me yearn for that.

Ache for it.

Only Ace makes me feel so damned much that I want to turn my world upside down.

Or maybe I already have and⁠—

He stops and I’m so into my own thoughts, I nearly plow into him.

Luckily, he has hockey player reflexes, so he catches me around the waist then steadies me by drawing me to his side. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs before shepherding me off the winding concrete path.

Suddenly there’s sand beneath my feet.

“My heels,” I whisper.

Almost as soon as my words cross my lips, he’s lifting me into his arms, carrying me down a slight decline and⁠—

“Fucking hockey players,” I whisper, finally understanding what’s happening.

What he’s set up here in this secluded slice of the world, er, golf course.

And suddenly, I’m having to fight the urge to burst into tears.

Because what’s in front of me is straight out of a fantasy.

A blanket is spread along the shore of a small lake—surely a water hazard, and I realize the sand he carried me across was probably another of the same. But it doesn’t matter what the space is by day because in the dark of the evening the spot he chose is nestled amongst the trees, private and quiet, water lapping against the shore, soft ripples in its surface glinting in the moonlight.

There are lanterns dotted around, softly illuminating the blanket and its contents…

Which are a bevy of pillows. Another blanket. A speaker playing soft music. And in the center⁠—